


Flood

by holyfant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Hogwarts, Threesome - F/M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:52:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione's idea, of course, this getaway. Away from prying eyes, no one else to focus on, see how they got on then with this new thing between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flood

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, so if you spot any typos and such, feel free to point them out!

The world outside is flooding.

 

The deep potholes that pit the road leading up to the house have turned to miniature lakes, edging towards each other and finally merging. The rain slants diagonally onto the terrace, staining the wood dark. Hermione's bouquet of lavender – the one that Ron picked from the roadside yesterday – is still on the garden table, its vase filling up with rain, the small purple heads nodding in the downpour, as if they're listening to a speech and agree emphatically. At the horizon there is a faint pearling of light: lost rays of afternoon sun falling through the clouds that foam overhead. It only lasts a few seconds; then the skies close again. The rushing, liquid noise of the rain hitting the growing puddles grows louder, muffling the rest of the world. Harry rests the rim of his tea mug against his mouth, and feels an odd niggle of exhilaration in his gut; there is truly no one around. They are alone, just like Hermione said they would be.

 

No Daily Prophet reporters hounding him. No Kingsley to call on him to make another pre-written endorsement speech for the interim Ministry. No hate mail, no love mail. Even the dreams have left him alone the past night. There is nothing here but the sky, that looks like the surface of the sea seen from below, the clouds churning fast and liquid.

 

The sound of a pronounced, long yawn makes him start a little. Ron comes padding out of the bedroom doorway, in just his pyjama trousers, hair standing up in tufts. “Merlin,” he groans, and rubs the palms of his hands over his eyes. He comes to stand next to Harry, surveying the outside with a critical set to his mouth. “I thought we'd come here for a _sunny getaway_. Aren't those the words Hermione used?”

 

Harry shrugs, smiling a little to himself. “Morning to you too. Well, I say morning.”

 

Ron ignores this. “How much d'you want to bet they're having sunshine in London right now? No, don't answer that, I'm trying to forget how much they pay you, you rich bastard.”

 

Harry bumps his shoulder against Ron's. “Fuck off,” he says. “They don't pay me anything. _Or_ you. We're still training.”

 

“Exactly,” Ron says gloomily.

 

Harry looks over at him, smiling. Ron catches his look, but only holds it for a second before looking away again, his jaw working as he swallows. Harry keeps on watching him, knowing that Ron is aware of it. At times, Ron is still a little awkward around him when they're alone; he still flips between modes of behaviour, of intimacy. Friend, partner, lover – for Harry the blending of these roles feels more natural with Ron than with Hermione, but it seems to be different for Ron. It'll get better, Harry hopes.

 

“There's tea in the kettle if you want some.” He gestures with his mug to where the charmed pot is keeping itself hot.

 

Ron gives him an incredulous look. “We're on the first real holiday we've ever had together and you made _tea_?”

 

Harry grins. “What, you didn't have enough Firewhiskey yesterday?”

 

“Every day's a new day, mate,” Ron says sagely.

 

“Technically it's still the same day,” Harry points out. “We only went to bed six hours ago. Anyway, I put some Hangover Cure in. Sure you don't want any?”

 

Ron rolls his eyes, but he goes to sit down at the table and pours himself a cup of tea. “Ahhh,” he says, taking a sip. “That does hit the spot.”

 

“Hermione'll want some when she wakes up, I reckon.”

 

They share an amused look. Ron aims his eyes towards the ceiling and holds his mug up as if in offering. “I would like to thank not only Merlin, but also Circe, for letting us witness Hermione with that much Firewhiskey in her. I never thought I'd see something like it in my life.”

 

“She was – energetic, that's for sure.”

 

“I've got enough material to take the mickey out of her for _years_ to come.” Ron looks absolutely blissful at this prospect. “And it was only our first night here!” Harry watches him, hardly managing to hold his smile in check. The steady sound of the rain on the wooden roof flags momentarily, only to resume even louder: a rhythmic rushing like the static when the Wireless goes dead. Both of them look out the window, watching how the rain pelts the earth with renewed energy, slashing the world into diagonal stripes. The water is lapping at the stairs that lead up the terrace. For a moment it's easy to believe that they could be afloat on a vast lake, sailing towards the middle.

 

“Don't think that Muggle castle Hermione wanted to see will be open for visitors in this weather,” Harry says.

 

“We'll have to think of something to do indoors, then.”

 

Harry turns towards Ron, searching his face for any sign of humour or innuendo. Ron holds his look, face quite blank.

 

Well, if he's going to be like that. Harry puts his mug on the windowsill and goes over to where Ron is sitting, standing over him. Ron will always be taller than Harry, and he's pressing this advantage whenever he can, but Harry knows he secretly likes it when someone towers over him. He may deny it until the cows come home, but Ron likes being bossed around a bit. There's a reason he fell for Hermione.

 

Ron looks up at Harry, his eyes bright. He doesn't move.

 

“You sound like you have a suggestion,” Harry says, and brushes his thumb over Ron's cheek, fitting his fingers against his temple. Ron tilts his head into the touch.

 

“Dunno,” he says, the glint in his eyes growing more pronounced. “I brought my chess set.”

 

“Chess.”

 

“Yeah, you know.” Ron brings up his hands and lightly folds them around Harry's hips. “Maybe I'll even let you win.”

 

“You've never let me win in your life.”

 

“Maybe I will this time.” Ron's fingertips, warm from holding his tea, slip underneath the hem of Harry's t-shirt.

 

Harry wants to kiss him, but he can't stoop deep enough to do so without going to his knees, and that seems like it might be a little much. Ron, apparently seeing the problem, pushes his face into Harry's stomach, nuzzling it. Harry can feel Ron's hot breath through the fabric of his t-shirt, and it sends a little thrill through him – nerves, and want. He slides his fingers into Ron's hair, and Ron responds by running his hands further up between the fabric of Harry's shirt and the skin of his abdomen. It's almost silly, how shivery and turned on this makes him feel, but this is – it's why they came here, really. Hermione's idea, of course, this getaway. Away from prying eyes, no one else to focus on, see how they got on then with this new thing between them. It's why they all got hammered last night, probably: too nervous to really make a go of it. But now Ron is mouthing at Harry's side through his t-shirt, and suddenly it all feels very near and possible.

 

“Let's wake Hermione up,” Ron says into Harry's stomach, then looks up at him. “Better take some of that hangover potion, though. I like my bits where they are.”

 

“Shit, so do I.”

 

A grin from Ron. “My bits, or yours?”

 

“Shut up.” Harry pushes his hand into the side of Ron's face. Ron bites it.

 

-

 

Hermione is still asleep. She's sprawled wide across the magically enlarged bed, her arm hanging off one side of it, the covers twisted around her calves. The room smells of the exhaled alcohol breaths of three people, and Ron goes over to the window to tilt it open. He tugs the curtains open too; the rain is still falling like silver outside, throwing liquid shadows onto the floor. It hardly makes the room any lighter. Harry and Ron stand appraising Hermione for a moment: the generous curve of her bare, dark thigh, the explosive mass of her hair.

 

“You should wake her,” Harry says, pushing Ron forward.

 

“Never took you for a coward, mate,” Ron says, but climbs onto the bed and runs a hand up Hermione's arm. “Hey. Hermione.”

 

Hermione comes awake in stages, making small snuffling noises, and finally peering at Ron as if she has no clue who he is. Her face has the wrinkled look of someone who's had a lot to drink the night before.

 

“What,” she says, and then spots Harry, standing at the foot of the bed. Her eyes focus a bit more. “What are you both – ugh. What.” She's hoarse from last night's Firewhiskey and drunken talking.

 

Ron grins. “Enjoy it, Harry, this is the only time of day when she doesn't know ten million words.”

 

“Why are you,” Hermione says, and both Harry and Ron laugh a little when she apparently can't find the words to continue.

 

“We thought we'd drop by to kiss you a bit,” Ron says, and moves to do so, but Hermione twists away from him.

 

“No, don't – don't kiss me,” she says. She blinks a few time, and seems to wake up fully. “You don't want to… Morning breath.”

 

“Same here,” Ron says cheerfully, and kisses her jaw, then her cheek – and then her mouth. She lets him. He pulls back. “Okay, yes, yours is worse.”

 

“Shove off, Ron,” she groans, and half-heartedly tries to stretch away from him again, hooking an arm over her eyes. “Merlin, my _head_.”

 

“Did you hear that, Harry? Tells me to shove off, she does. Never used to do that before. I think that's our good influence.” Ron tries to kiss her again, and she turns her face away, then laughs and turns back, allowing the kiss. Harry watches them from the foot of the bed, their easy intimacy. As always, it makes him feel a little odd.

 

“We've got some potion, Hermione,” Harry says, holding it up. “You should have some.”

 

“God, yes,” she says, reverting to her occasional Muggleism in the face of serious alcohol use, and sits up to take the flask from Harry. In the blue gloom of the rain-choked day Harry can only just make out her face, the lines the pillow left in her skin.

 

Ron settles himself against the headboard as she drinks the potion, and motions Harry to join him there. Harry takes a moment to take off his glasses and put them on the bedside table, before he clambers up between Ron and Hermione. Ron clicks on the bedside lamp, flooding them all with a soft, yellow light. Hermione narrows her eyes to slits, like a cat. Without his glasses everything is a little blurry. The feeling that it's the depth of night returns to Harry; that there is no one else alive or awake for miles around; that they are out sailing on a vast ocean that contains nothing but them and the rain. Outside, there is a rumble of thunder. For a few long moments they all sit together on the bed, not talking, Hermione taking small sips of the hangover potion.

 

“A statue for Herbertine Dumoulin,” she sighs.

 

“Who?” Ron says blankly.

 

Hermione gestures with the bottle. “She invented this potion. She was a prioress witch in the seventh century. I don't know how people coped before that.”

 

Ron turns towards Harry. “You know she's back to normal when she starts telling us about dead people that nobody has ever heard of.”

 

Harry smiles as Hermione gives a little scoff. “People have heard of her! She's a very important –”

 

“'Mione, please,” Ron says. “Harry and I came in here to get off, not to get a history lesson.”

 

She opens her mouth to retort, but closes it again. “Oh,” she says, blinking.

 

“But if you're not interested,” Ron says, “I'll just snog Harry.” And he does: tugs Harry towards him by the sleeve of his t-shirt and kisses him on the mouth. It's a dry, short kiss, a bit awkwardly angled, but it still sparks a nervous desire in Harry's gut. They've kissed before, of course – far better and longer than this, even, but it's still different, knowing what the intent is. He licks his lips, and moves in to kiss Ron back, a bit deeper, their noses not bumping this time. Hermione exhales audibly behind him.

 

They draw back. Ron's expression has lost its jokey edge; he's blushing now.

 

Harry feels the mattress dip, and turns to see Hermione getting out of bed.

 

“I just need to –” She brushes her hand over her lips. “Rinse my mouth, I think.” She lets out a little laugh. “I'll be right back.”

 

Harry and Ron both look at her as she leaves the room. “She's nervous,” Ron says.

 

“Yeah.” It's one of the things Harry's learning about her: she's good at taking charge, but sometimes there's this insecurity underneath. He's known her for all these years and he's only now really starting to see it.

 

Silence. When Ron looks at Harry, his eyes are shadowed by the golden glow of the lamp beside him. His body language changes; his mouth tightens, his shoulders draw themselves up.

 

Harry, seeing it, feels his stomach give an unpleasant little jolt. “We – er. We can wait until she gets back, if you want.”

 

Ron frowns. “Is that what you want?”

 

“Um,” Harry says intelligently.

 

“Mate.” Ron turns his body more fully towards Harry. “Whatever you want's fine. But just to be clear, Hermione doesn't need to be in the room for me to like snogging you.” His blush grows pinker. He continues, rather quickly: “It's just – sometimes – it's still a bit new with you, I s'pose. Doesn't mean I don't want to.”

 

“All right,” Harry says, half relieved, half embarrassed. “That's, er. Good. Yeah.”

 

Ron watches him for another moment, then puts his arm around Harry and pulls him into a half-embrace, Harry's head ending up somewhere near his shoulder. Harry nuzzles into it, fitting to Ron's side. He and Ron never used to hug much; that they do it more often now is what he might be enjoying most about the new developments in their relationship.

 

Ron kisses his temple. Taking the hint, Harry turns his face up towards him. They kiss, quite slowly, tongues sliding together unhurriedly. Harry runs his hand over the bare skin of Ron's chest, feels the skin, the hair, the muscles underneath. He's been half hard ever since Ron kissed his stomach back in the kitchen, and he's pressed close enough to Ron to feel the friction when Ron shifts his legs. Ron clearly feels it too; he makes a little _hm_ sound, one that Harry's starting to know.

 

Hermione's footsteps pad back into the bedroom. Harry and Ron break apart to look at her. She's standing at the foot of the bed, lifts the t-shirt she was sleeping in – one of Ron's Chudley Cannons ones – over her head and drops it, then becomes aware of the fact that they're looking at her. “Go back to what you were doing,” she instructs, half-serious, covering her breasts for a moment with her hands, but then changing her mind and letting her arms drop to her sides. She's still wearing her knickers, light blue ones. Harry likes how they make her skin look even darker.

 

Ron pats the bed between him and Harry. “C'mere.” The bed dips with her weight as she crawls up and maneuvers onto her back a bit awkwardly. Harry moves down to lie on his side next to her, resting his head on his hand, quietly appreciating the lovely way her breasts droop to the sides of her ribcage.

 

“I should not have had so much Firewhiskey,” she says, and closes her eyes.

 

“Potion didn't help?” Ron asks, running his hand over the skin just below her breasts.

 

“Of course it helped, but now I _remember_ everything.”

 

Ron aims a grin at Harry. “No one here to see it but us.”

 

“That's one of the least reassuring things you've ever said to me.”

 

“Really?” Harry says. “I can think of at least ten less reassuring things Ron's said without even trying.”

 

“Mate.” Ron gives him a mock-betrayed look.

 

Hermione looks at Harry, smiles, reaches up to stroke his hair. She's gentler with him, more careful, than with Ron; she always has been, and that hasn't changed. It wouldn't work if it were only her, but Ron is there too – and as if on cue, Ron says: “Snog already, will you?”

 

Harry dips his head to kiss her. She meets him, opens her mouth beneath his, waits for him to slip his tongue in to reciprocate. She's softer to kiss than Ron – not just in the sensation of her lips and skin, but in the way she paces it. Her mouth tastes like tooth paste, which makes him feel a little self-conscious about the fact that he hasn't brushed his own teeth, but she tightens her hold on his head and pulls him in more firmly, licking into his mouth, so he supposes she doesn't mind. He runs his hand over her soft belly, up to cup one of her breasts. The nipple pebbles under his fingers. She stretches a thigh against his; he nuzzles his crotch against it, only the thin fabric of his boxers separating her skin from his hardening cock. Arousal is already displacing his nerves, the lingering thoughts about how weird it could be to intrude on something that Ron and Hermione have already been sharing for a while, the anxiety about not being up to scratch.

 

Hermione disengages from his mouth with a sharp little intake of breath. “Mmm,” she says, eyes fluttering shut.

 

Harry looks at Ron; he's got his hand inside Hermione's knickers, rubbing. “Go on,” Ron says to Harry, his eyes glinting.

 

Hermione pulls him down into another kiss, firmer this time. Harry rubs up against her, the friction sending sparks of pleasure into his groin. The kissing grows a bit sloppy, Hermione distracted by Ron's fingers. She makes little gaspy noises into Harry's mouth, fingers tightening on his neck. It feels connected, as though Harry can feel Ron through her responses.

 

She closes the kiss, easing off. “Can I – make a request,” she says, voice breaking a little.

 

“'Course,” says Ron, hand still working.

 

“We take all our clothes off, because I don't like being the only nearly naked one. And then you two should snog.”

 

“What d'you reckon, Harry? Sound fair?”

 

Harry responds by sitting up and reaching back to pull his t-shirt over his head.

 

“I'll assume that's a yes,” Ron says cheerfully, and the next moments are filled with them getting their remaining pieces of clothing off: Ron kicks his pyjama trousers off the bed before tugging Hermione's knickers down her legs. Harry slides his boxer shorts over his hips, feeling more than a little exposed, but it helps that when he gets up on his knees and looks up, Ron and Hermione are naked too, and Ron is just as hard as Harry is.

 

Ron flops onto his back without grace, and waves Harry over. “When the lady says _snog_ ,” he says, “we snog.”

 

Harry grins, lets himself be pulled into it. Ron's rougher than Hermione; stubble, teeth. He tugs at Harry until their groins are aligned. Harry pushes down, dragging their cocks against each other, and hisses at the feeling.

 

“Yessss,” Ron says, and lifts up his knees on either side of Harry, bracketing him. “Do that again.”

 

Harry does, supporting himself on his elbows. He can't quite reach Ron's mouth like this, but he can suck Ron's neck, dragging his teeth over the skin: giving into a desire he's had for a while but hasn't dared to act on yet. Ron seems to like it and cranes his head so Harry has better access. He's moaning, hands tight on Harry's back, drawing him in. It gets quite frantic fast, and Harry, feeling himself on that tipping point, pushes back against Ron's hands and lifts himself off.

 

“Harry, what the _fuck_ ,” Ron whines, trying to pull him back in.

 

“Sorry,” Harry gasps, “I was gonna come –”

 

Ron lets him go. His eyes are glazed, his mouth open. “So was I, wanker!”

 

Harry moves out of the reach of his hands, panting. “Well, we're not bloody _alone_ , are we?”

 

Ron looks over at Hermione, who is smiling widely. “Listen – to that,” he tells her, and takes a moment to calm his breathing. “More of a gentleman than I'll ever be. I'll give you two words, Harry: _oral sex_. You don't need to have a boner to get her off.”

 

Harry glares at him, feeling suddenly embarrassed, his pulse still running high.

 

“Stop it, Ron,” Hermione says. “I'll give _you_ some words: don't rib someone when you're shagging them for the first time. Don't mind him, Harry, he's just upset because you got him so close so quickly.”

 

“I am not!”

 

“He is.” She's smiling. “That was nice to watch, but I'm definitely not complaining that you cut it short.”

 

Ron pushes himself up on his elbows. His cock is fully hard, glistening at the tip. “Well, _all right_ then,” he says. “If you two are going to be like that.” He puts out a hand for Hermione, and she leans into him. His lips are at her ear, telling her something Harry can't catch; Hermione, still smiling, bites her lip, then nods.

 

“Harry,” Ron says, “d'you want Hermione to fuck you?”

 

Harry looks at both of them for a moment.

 

“Yeah, he wants you to,” Ron says to Hermione.

 

She frowns. “Harry?”

 

“I – sorry,” he says, blinking. “I was just, er. Yes.”

 

“See?” Ron said, and lets go of Hermione. “Of course he wants to.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes,” Harry says, glad that his voice keeps steady.

 

Hermione smiles: an edge of something sharp in it. “On your back, then,” she says, and Harry understands maybe for the first time why Ron and Hermione are better at resolving their scuffles for control these days. Hermione handing out orders like this, luminous and glowing with sex, is enough to want to obey.

 

She doesn't waste time; sets herself astride him, taking his cock in hand. “Ready?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, and then, because he feels he should: “I'm, er, pretty wound up, Hermione, I dunno how long –”

 

“Don't worry,” she says, and with that she bears down, guiding his cock in with her hand. She only takes it in slowly. Harry closes his eyes, fisting his hands in the covers, already having to struggle to get the surge of pleasure in his gut under control. He's grateful that she stays still for a long moment when he's inside her fully. She leans forward, making him groan, and puts a hand flat on his chest. “Give me – a moment,” she says.

 

Harry opens his eyes. She's smiling, her bottom teeth working at her upper lip. “Yeah, 'course, fine,” he says, trying to get a grip.

 

Hermione gives an experimental little roll of her hips, and Harry makes a guttural noise that he can't hold back. He squeezes her thighs with his hands, wanting to draw her even closer. She does it again, again – setting a slow rhythm that makes pleasure shiver in hot bursts up Harry's spine.

 

“This is a good look for you, mate,” Ron says, and tilts Harry's face with his hand to press a kiss to his mouth, simple and quick. “Mind if I get on too?”

 

“How – are you going to do that?” Harry says, with a little thrill of foreboding.

 

Ron grins, pecks him on the lips again. “Watch and learn.”

 

Ron turns round, gives Hermione a kiss, and moves around her. He gets his knees on either side of Harry's thighs behind Hermione, pressing against her back. She leans into him, changing the angle of Harry's cock inside her in a way that makes her mouth fall open. Ron kisses her temple, cradles one of her breasts in his hand, and slides the other one down her belly, through her pubic hair, down to her clit. It's an incredible sight, his pale arm over Hermione's dark skin, fingers reaching where Harry's cock is inside her; Harry moans, grabbing Hermione's hips in an attempt to gain some sort of purchase on her movements. He's desperate to move up against her, meet her slow rolling thrusts, but her and Ron's combined weight pins him in place and all he can do is let it happen.

 

Ron uses two fingers to rub around Hermione's clit, and she cries out, the walls of her cunt squeezing tighter around Harry, who can't help making a sound too. His orgasm is so close he can almost taste it.

 

“Yeah,” Ron says, voice low, moving with Hermione, “that's it, isn't it? Fuck him, c'mon, Hermione –”

 

Hermione grinds down hard on Harry's pubic bone. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” she whines, and Harry just has the presence of mind to realise that he's never heard her say that before – but then she changes the pace, her hips moving more frantically, and pleasure short-circuits his thoughts. He grapples at her hips – “Hermione, I'm,” he manages, and then, helpless, like a wave cresting, he comes, stuffing his knuckles into his mouth to stop himself from shouting. Shuddering through the final spikes of his orgasm, he's aware that Hermione's coming too; she's clenching around him, almost sobbing, her hand on Ron's furiously working one.

 

She sags when it's over, head falling back against Ron's shoulder. Ron holds her up. There's a light sheen of sweat on her skin, her chest is heaving. “Fuck,” she breathes.

 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, mind still emerging from the daze.

 

Ron gets off Harry's knees; Hermione lifts herself off too, with some care, letting Harry's cock slip out. She leans in and kisses him on the mouth, smiling when she pulls back. She looks so joyful that Harry feels moved by it.

 

“Shit,” Ron says, and he laughs weakly. “Sorry about that, Hermione, let me _scourgify_ that –”

 

“You think I _mind_?” she says. “Go ahead, do Harry too.”

 

Harry understands, vaguely, that Ron must have come against Hermione's back. Ron performs the charm, leaving him significantly drier than before. Hermione lies down on her back next to Harry, so he rolls over to press himself to her side. His cheek ends up on her breast, and he gives it a vague kiss. Ron, pulling up a blanket with him, curls around Harry's back, his long thighs pressing to the back of Harry's. He slides his arm across Harry's side to come to rest on Hermione's belly. It's warm and a bit sticky, not entirely comfortable, but Harry relaxes into it.

 

“Hey, imagine that,” Ron says, slow and sated. “It's stopped raining.”

 

Harry doesn't try to see out the window. “Good. Bungalow would've flooded otherwise.”

 

Ron makes a little noise, vaguely indignant. “We may be living like Muggle cavemen, but we're still wizards, Harry. We can _do magic_ to make things like that stop. Actually, we should –”

 

“Shhhhhh,” Hermione says, and her arm under Harry's head shifts. “Stop talking.”

 

“Oh, that's rich,” Ron says, his voice coming out muffled. Harry guesses Hermione has managed to get her hand over his mouth. “Just 'cause sex is the one thing that shuts _you_ up. I'm – mmmfff –”

 

Harry can feel Hermione's body shivering quietly with laughter. “There's just no enjoying the afterglow with him, Harry, it's terrible.”

 

Ron hmphs, but goes quiet. They lie, breathing in their different rhythms, the sweat between them drying. Harry can tell from the light coming into the bedroom that the clouds have indeed broken up outside, even if the sun must be close to setting. It only strengthens his feeling of being misplaced in time: as if the light inching over them is the morning, and he and Ron and Hermione have rowed their way through the long, liquid night together. The shared body heat and Hermione's slow fingers combing through his hair make his eyelids droop.

 

He's woken from his doze by Ron's voice. “Enough afterglow for both of you? I'm bloody starving.”

 

Hermione laughs. Harry presses his grinning mouth against her breast, stifling his own laughter, keeping it inside – keeping it like a flame, like the dawn: dissolving the clouds, breaking inwards.

 

 


End file.
